


What You See

by PurpleArrowzandLeather



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21599014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleArrowzandLeather/pseuds/PurpleArrowzandLeather
Summary: Sherlock Holmes' homecoming after the Reichenbach fall is very different. Unfortunately for him, this little difference makes everyone want to coddle him. Also unfortunately for him, he'd be a liar if he said he didn't enjoy it just a smidge.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 78





	What You See

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing.

It was worse than Mycroft knew. 

Sherlock was very careful to ensure it. His brother may have come for him when he was trapped in that Serbian hole, but he watched. By now, the bruises have fully colored and the welts on his back have reddened. He aches everywhere, but his shoulders are the worst. Still, the only time Sherlock let on to his hurts after coming home was when he snapped at Mycroft. 

“I got you out.” 

“I got myself out. You _watched."_

Even though Mycroft was... well, Mycroft, Sherlock almost couldn’t believe he’d sat there and watched for hours on end as they beat him. 

Now, Mycroft is scowling at him. For being ungracious. Ungracious. 

Sherlock is careful when he gets up to leave, moving as if nothing hurts nearly as bad as it does. He knows how to hide things from his brother, observant as he might be. He finds out where John is supposed to be, dons his favorite outfit, and leaves Mycroft to whatever strange form of guilt he may harbor. 

“Take care, brother dear.” 

Maybe it’s association with John, but he’s tempted to tell Mycroft where he can take his care. 

In his state, he resigns himself to the car Mycroft has waiting for him. When he’s certain Mycroft is no longer able to see him, he allows himself to slouch. His brother always makes him tense anyway. 

He goes to the only place he considers home. 

221B. When he knocks, the door is opened within a few moments. Mrs. Hudson freezes when she sees him, but eventually, she reaches out a tender hand to his face. “Oh, Sherlock.” 

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson.” 

She leads him upstairs and he’s sure to keep himself steady to avoid her concern. When it appears he’s soaking the place in, she leaves him alone for a while. Excited as she is, she understands that it’s been a long time since he’s been home. 

He takes an hour to simply look the place over before calling down the stairs. “Mrs. Hudson.” 

She appears in the doorway in only a few moments, a tray with tea on it in hand. “I brought you some tea, since it seemed you were in need of refreshment.” 

Sherlock doesn’t mutter about the obviousness of it like he might have two years past. “Thank you.” 

“Would... you like me to call John?” 

“No. I’m sure he’ll be along at some point this afternoon.” 

Mrs. Hudson makes a small sound. “Sherlock.... He hasn’t come ‘round since…. Well, since.... Never even a phone call.” 

“Yes, quite right. Worry not, Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Oh. All right then.” 

Sherlock isn’t quite sure how he knows John is going to come, but it’s a feeling he has. “And, Mrs. Hudson?” 

“Yes, dear?” 

“When he does decide to show, don’t tell him.” 

She doesn’t seem to agree with his decision, but she doesn’t question him. He heads to his room first thing after she leaves again, taking his cup of tea with him. Sherlock strips out of his coat and shirt, treating the small cuts peppering his skin. He lays down in his bed, taking deep breaths in an attempt to ease the pain. 

He’s dozing lightly when someone opens his door. 

“Oh my- Sherlock!” Hands land on his side and back with hurried gentleness. “Sherlock, what happened to you? What are -? Why aren’t you -” 

He rouses, groaning. “John?” 

“Stay very still.” 

Sherlock blinks at him, his gaze unfocused. “What are you doing?” 

“You’re in rough shape. Just hold still while I check you over.” 

“M’ perfectly fine, John. I assure you.” 

John scoffs, pressing against his shoulders as he tries to get up. Sherlock winces, sucking in a breath, but John isn’t about to take pity on him. “Two years. Two years and you’ve been alive this whole time? And you come back looking like someone tried to put you through a meat grinder?” 

“It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.” 

“Shut up, you stupid git. You keep this up, I’ll call Lestrade and tell him to phone an ambulance.” 

Sherlock twists around enough to see John, despite his protests. He pauses at the mustache, but plows on after a moment of silence. “I don’t need an ambulance. And if you phone Lestrade, I will jump off another building and it will be real this time.” 

John stiffens. “Don’t you dare say that, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you dare.” 

By way of apology, Sherlock lays back down, letting John hover over him. “I’m... sorry.” 

The doctor certainly seems surprised. 

“I’m sorry, John. It was the only way.” 

In his extremely wordy and vastly unnecessary, he explains to John about the snipers and why he had to jump. Of course, he does it all in a manner that’s vaguely petulant, but John started it by being stubborn and doctor...y. 

“Sherlock.... You could have told me you were alive. I wouldn’t have said anything.” 

“I couldn’t risk it. I had to take down Moriarty’s network, and the more people who knew -” 

“Yes, but people had to have known. You had help.” 

Sherlock huffs. “Of course, I had help. I wasn’t going to be able to jump off a building and survive it on my own.” 

“ _Please._ ” John puts a hand on his shoulder, moving it abruptly when Sherlock flinches. “Please, don’t say it like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Say it like -” John breaks off, pulling in a shaking breath and covering his mouth. “Don’t say it like it’s something you just _do_. It’s not, and it wasn’t fair.” To prove a bit of a point, John grips Sherlock’s shoulder, where he _knows_ it hurts. It’s a sharp reminder that he hurt John too. “You made me _watch_ as you committed suicide. I watched my best friend die, so don’t you dare.” 

Sherlock makes a pained noise, but John doesn’t let go. 

Maybe that’s what hurts the most. The reason he hurt John so much is because his friend didn’t want to let go. Or maybe the worst part is that he didn’t either. 

“Sherlock.” 

“I promise, John. All right? Now, please, let go.” 

John releases his hold, having exacted his promise from Sherlock. It’s quiet while the medic tends to Sherlock, the two of them acclimating to each other again. 

“I went to your grave.” 

“Hmm.” 

Sherlock is patient as John tries to figure out what to say to him. Or, at least, he thinks that’s what John is doing until he brings out some bandages. Sherlock attempts to struggle up from the bed, but he doesn’t get far. John grumbles at him to stop being such a stubborn arsehole as he presses the bandages wherever he can reach. 

“I... asked you not to be dead.” 

“I heard you.” 

John pulls at his arm, trying to get him to bring them out from underneath his body. Sherlock is still fighting him, obviously not wanting him to see something. 

He gets one hand free, stopping when he gets a look at Sherlock’s wrist. “This is.... Sherlock, what happened to you?” 

“I told you. I was taking down Moriarty’s network.” 

“These... marks.” The good doctor spread a cool cream on the chaffing marks, wrapping up his wrist with care. “You were a captive, Sherlock. That doesn’t tell me you were taking down a network, it tells me the network was trying to kill you.” 

Sherlock scowls. “I wasn’t a captive. I had them right where I wanted them.” 

John circles the bed, pulling his other wrist free from its hiding place. “Right. So that’s why I’m staring at a mass of cuts and bruises?” 

“I had to take them down from the inside. Plant seeds of doubt everywhere. Pull apart all the contacts Moriarty had. I couldn’t leave anything standing, John.” 

“You could have died.” John hisses, easing his grip on Sherlock’s wrist as he hears him wince. “You could have died, and I would never have known.” 

Sherlock tuts. “Technically, you already knew I died.” 

“Sherlock, just....” John swallows. “Please, for once, try to understand this as a normal human being. Please stop treating your life as if it doesn’t matter, because it does.” 

“You don’t understand!” Sherlock wrestles his wrist away from John, attempting to get up far too quickly. He makes a tiny sound, pressing his already-bandaged wrist against his chest. “You don’t understand.” he whispers. 

John eases him back onto the bed. “Just stay put, Sherlock. You’ll make this easier on both of us if you just don’t move.” 

“That’s the problem with people. Always want things to be simple. It’s not- It's not simple! It’s not simple! This was Moriarty, and he was going to kill all of you. Everyone I care about could still have been in danger after his death, and unless I did something about it, nothing would change that! I did what I had to. I had to keep all of you safe!” He takes a strained breath, pressing his face into the pillows. “ _I was just trying to keep you safe._ ” 

John almost thinks to quiet him, but then he decides on a different method. He rounds the bed another time, touching the back of his hand to the teacup on the bedside table. It’s cold. John does the same thing to Sherlock’s forehead, finding it too warm. 

“Sherlock.” 

He makes a petulant noise. 

“I’m going to make some fresh tea, all right?” 

“Fine.” 

The dismissal is all John needs to escape the room and make tea with some lovely sedatives included. While it’s warming, he sits down in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. He pulls out his phone, dialing Mary. 

“ _John? Have you finished at the flat, then?”_

John sighs, his breaths shaky. “I am... still in the flat, and....” 

“ _And what? John, is everything all right?”_

“Sherlock is here, and he’s still alive. I found him in his bed and he was... _is_ covered in all sorts of cuts and bruises. He explained some of it to me, but -” 

“ _But.... People don’t just come back from the dead John. He faked his death and we’re just supposed to trust his reasoning?”_

“Yes. We are, and we’re doing it because despite this whole mess, I trust him.” John closes his eyes. “You didn’t hear him, Mary. He didn’t want to fake his death, but he did it so we’d be okay.” He glances towards the bedroom door, clenching his jaw. “He was scared, Mary. Not of being hurt, or anything that could have happened to him, but he was scared _for us."_

This is why John had issues with people who said Sherlock was barely human. 

“ _Did you want me to head over? I could help out a bit.”_

“No. No, he wouldn’t want to be seen like this by someone he doesn’t know. I’ll.... I’ll call you when I can, but I can’t promise I’ll make our date.” 

“ _It’s all right, John. I’ll see you soon, okay, love?”_

“Of course. Goodnight, dear.” 

Right as he hangs up, he hears Sherlock groan from the other room. “John. Tea.” 

“I’m coming, Sherlock. You know you have to be patient to get a good brew.” John shakes his head, hiding a smile even though he’s alone. “We’ve been over this.” 

Sherlock grumbles something that John doesn’t quite catch, but judging by his current attitude, it isn’t much of a leap to know he’s being grumpy. 

Once the tea is done, he takes it to Sherlock. He takes the cup, eyeing it with suspicion. One sniff at it is all it takes for him to know. “Trying to drug me, John?” 

“Yes, now if you’ll hurry up and take that, everything will start feeling a bit better.” 

Sherlock groans, downing the whole cup in one go. “Unlikely, but fine.” 

“Thank you for your cooperation, although there’s no reason to be so happy about it.” 

“Mmph.” 

When it appears Sherlock isn’t going to protest anymore, John finishes wrapping up his other wrist. “If you’d be so kind as to turn over.” 

“No.” he grumbles, the word drowsy. 

“I have to get a look at it, Sherlock.” 

“They’re just bruises. It’s fine.” 

John raises a brow and waits patiently. Sherlock dozes off thanks to the sedative and John turns him over. He grimaces at the patchwork across his stomach, shaking his head again. There’s a cut near his temple John hadn’t noticed, but there is a butterfly bandage across it. Clearly, someone took care of him, though it was kind of in a half-assed way considering the rest of him. 

The good doctor finishes up, rolling him back onto his stomach and letting him get some good rest. He leans against the door frame, sighing. “What am I supposed to do?” 

Of course, the silence offers him no answer. 

John settles in the reading chair, deciding to watch over him for a while. It’s not his fault he falls asleep, since it’s always so cozy in the flat. 

By morning, Sherlock is moving around again. John is still asleep. 

He has one more person to go see, so he puts on his shirt and suit coat again. Shifting his long coat over his shoulders is a laborious process, his shoulders still hurting. It doesn’t matter. He wants to go see Lestrade, so he’s going to go see Lestrade. 

For John’s sake, he leaves all the bandages on. 

Sherlock arrives at Scotland Yard in twenty minutes, the taxi moving outrageously slow for him today. Of course, he made no effort to state he was in a hurry. 

It surprises him to see Lestrade about to light up a cigarette, but then again.... Maybe it shouldn’t. 

“Those things’ll kill you.” 

Lestrade heaves a breath, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. “You _bastard.”_

Another thing that surprises Sherlock is the hug. Lestrade hangs onto him, a hand at the back of his head. He wonders briefly if this isn’t what it’s like for a father to hold a lost son.

Lestrade squeezes him too tightly, eliciting a pained noise from his throat. He lets go, checking him over. He finds the bandaging on Sherlock’s wrists in no time at all. The question in his eyes is one Sherlock feels an odd compulsion to answer. Usually, he wouldn’t feel it, but there’s a desperation in Lestrade that he can sense. There’s such _need_ to know what happened to him and to know he’s okay. 

“I’m all right.” Sherlock murmurs. 

“Like hell, you’re all right. Look at you.” He touches a light hand to a bruise near Sherlock’s collar. “My god, Holmes, we thought you were -” 

Sherlock grimaces. “I’m sorry.” 

Lestrade stops short, tilting his head. Sherlock doesn’t know how he does it, but his gaze is half concern and half unbelievable warmth. He has no doubt Lestrade sees him as a youth in need of some taking care of, and he also has no doubt he’ll be John’s steadfast ally in the forced bedrest he suspects is coming. 

“You were gone.” 

“To protect my friends, I had to be, but it’s time to be back, Graham.” 

Lestrade squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s Greg.” 

Sherlock blinks. “Quite right.” 

The inspector shakes his head at Sherlock, the young man he swore a long time ago to help and protect. He listened to Sherlock even if at the time he hadn’t understood why. 

He sees it now. Lestrade sees the good man in Sherlock, the one who would almost literally die for their sake. 

“Will John be coming to pick you up?” 

Sherlock hums. “No. He’s sleeping at the flat.” 

“So, he already knows?” 

“Yes. He stumbled in about six hours ago and found me asleep. Then he dithered about me like a hospital nurse.” He grumbles to himself a little bit. “It wasn’t necessary.” 

Lestrade chuckles. “And we all know how much you hate the hospital.” 

Another hum. 

The older man pats his shoulder, pausing as he feels Sherlock tense and hears a wince. “Come on, then. I’ll take you home.” 

“You don’t need to go to the tr -” 

“Yes, Sherlock, I do.” He guides the young man towards the exit with a light hand to the back of his arm. 

Again, Sherlock is struck by how fatherly the action is. 

It’s a quiet ride back to the flat, but companionable. He helps Sherlock up the stairs even though he claims not to need assistance. Considering he lets the older man help at all makes it clear he’s more tired than he lets on. 

John is waiting for him. 

“Sherlock Holmes, if you don’t sit down and rest, I will kill you.” 

“Counterproductive to caring for me, wouldn’t you think?” 

John glances at Lestrade with exasperation in his expression, knowing the inspector knows the feeling fully well. “Only counterproductive if I have to do it. Now, go.” 

Sherlock skulks into his bedroom, grousing the entire way. 

Lestrade looks to John. “What are we supposed to do with him?” 

“Honestly?” John casts a glance towards the open bedroom door. “I’m not sure.” 

Greg makes a face. “I suppose that’s the way he likes it, isn’t it?” He shifts on feet, pushing his coat aside to put his hands on his hips. A smile crosses his face. “I suppose... I’ve missed it.” 

“Oh, don’t let him hear you say that. You’ll never live it down.” 

The inspector laughs, accepting tea when John offers. “Good."

The look John offers him is incredulous, but sincere.

"That’s good.” 


End file.
